


Fallout

by grayglube



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, F/M, Female Stiles Stilinski, Language, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 19:15:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayglube/pseuds/grayglube
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For some awful, sick, wrong reason she leaves her window open. He probably thinks it’s a trap or something; otherwise he’d have climbed through it already, like always, like normal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fallout

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on a prompt from teenwolfkink over at livejournal, it called for a “reasons make them do it” with typical Sterek noncommunication leading to Derek thinking Stiles is scared of him afterwards and Stiles thinking Derek is disgusted by what happened. Stiles has an unrequited love thing going on before the sex while Derek has none of those feelings. That was the gist of the prompt. I wanted to do girl!Stiles so I did, it’s not everyone’s thing and hey that’s cool but it’s my thing and there isn’t enough of it. This is told out of order.

*     *     *

The fallout is as bad as the set-up ever was, she wonders how long it’s going to last, if they’ll ever _outlast_ it. For some awful, sick, _wrong_ reason she leaves her window open. He probably thinks it’s a trap or something; otherwise he’d have climbed through it already, like always, like normal.

Everything has been so completely fucked.

And maybe, she thinks, he doesn’t think it’s a trap, doesn’t think about it at all because he hasn’t come around close enough to any place she goes to think about her at all.

*     *     *

The doorbell chimes, loud and obtrusive enough that she grinds her teeth and scowls at her cereal which has already made her more than a bit nauseous. Sugary, compacted lucky charm marshmallow bits are sitting on her back molars. She can feel the ridges of wisdom teeth popping through her gum line.

She’s fully expecting Jehovah’s Witnesses. It’s Spring and warm enough for those middle-aged women and boys in ill-fitting suits to stroll down the sidewalks and try to hand off their holy scripture in glossy age-appropriate magazine with test your knowledge quizzes after every article on abstinence and why the young adult supernatural book craze is on the same level as devil worship.

It’s just Isaac.

She forgets about the mouthful of breakfast diabetic coronary and dribbles milk down the front of her faded Doom Patrol t-shirt, the emblem cracked from so much machine-washing that it’s starting to curl and flake off.

His mouth twitches with an unstoppable grin as he walks past, shoulders turned in and down, hands in the pockets of his werewolf pack regulation leather jacket, his head turned back to meet her stare.

But his grin recedes when he really looks at her.

She knows, she owns a mirror.

When she swallows she feels it thick and awful in her esophagus and she desperately fights a cough that could turn into a spew.

“You look like shit.”

“Yeah.”

“How much are you taking of that stuff?” His nose scrunches up like he can smell her pharmaceutical supply oozing from her pores.

“How much have I have not been taking, actually.”

“That’s why you smell so bad.”

“Yeah, detoxing.”

“Why?”

Stiles just shrugs.

She shrugs like it was on a whim that she flushed half of her pills down the toilet in order to not take as many., like she woke up one day and consciously decided it might be fun to be debilitating queasy all the time with a side order of migraine every time she sneezed or yawned.

“Sooooo... want some cereal?”

“Cereal?”

“Yeah. I don’t wanna eat the rest.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t feel good.”

He makes grabby hands at her cereal bowl which is the smallest of the blue glass mixing blues from the cabinet next to the oven. He looks positively pondersome, and yes, she is quite aware that pondersome is not truly a real word, or that truly and real in the same sentence are just superfluous, but hey…she’s really into alliteration.

She waits for him to ask a question, the question she doesn’t know until he asks if she’ll hate him asking.

“Why Derek?”

“Don’t be an asshole. That’s not you.” And she’s not angry. Just tired, and headachy. Really tired, of everyone. His mouth drops, half chewed cereal almost falls out before his teeth click together and he swallows.

“I’m just…” he starts, looking severely uncomfortable, like he hasn’t taken a shit in days. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

Stiles sighs, “You didn’t do anything.”

“What’s going on with you two, anyway?”

“Nothing’s going on. Nothing happened. And things are normal.”

He gives her a look that says everything that comes out of his mouth next, complete with eyebrows, “but they’re not.”

She’s shrugs. “Who cares?”

“Why are you being like this?”

“Being like what?”

“You’re isolating yourself.”

“I’m not doing anything; it’s the situation that’s doing it. I’m just letting it.”

“Why?”

“Only human ya know?”

“You don’t have to be.”

“I want to be.”

And that is the end of that. She blinks and holds her eyes closed, suddenly he’s there, right at her feet.

“Is your dad at work?”

“Double shift.”

He grins, all wolfish boy not boy wolf. “Hey, wanna see something cool?”

“I’ve seen a penis before, dude.”

He laughs, chortles really. “Heh. No.”

And he kisses her, dry chapped lips and his nose nudging hers and…, “Woah.”

“…”

He stares at her, dopey boy or lovesick puppy and she hates thinking of him that way. She doesn’t want sweet. She wishes she did but all the leather jacket and Marlboro badassery will make Isaac less sweet.

“Isaac…knock it off.”

“Sorry. Just wanted to do that once. See what it was like.”

“It’s awful, right?”

“Sucks, makes me want to throw up. Gross.”

“Gnarly, dude.”

They smile and she falls back on her shoulder and side with a palm over her forehead, and he’s still sitting there, looking at her, finally she sighs with one eye open just a fraction, “Come here.”

He gets it, right away. He’s observant like that. Shrugging off his jacket and moving to lie behind her is easy, he puts his hand under hers, the pain dissipating. Scott told her way back whenever about werewolf pain relief. She wonders if Lydia has figured out a way to put that shit in Motrin or something yet.

“I don’t mind, you know?” He mumbles into her hair.

“What?”

“If you ever wanted to use me, if you wanted to.”

“I’ll keep that in mind you slut.”

Isaac’s laughing rumble chuckle is nice against her spine, settling into body.

She’ll place the blame on the couch for his hand cupped over her small, bare, breast under her shirt with her own on top and her leg thrown back over one of his. The couch is pretty small. And if she every so often rubs down against the leg between hers or he slowly sucks a hickey into her neck while he’s half asleep, so what?

They’re just two kids without parental supervision, they’ve got their clothes on and she seriously doubts either of them will get so much as an orgasm out of a little drowsy frottage on  a tiny sofa, there’s no harm in it.

Isaac smells like orange peel, Big Red, and the Marlboros he pretends he doesn’t smoke.

She likes it, but she wishes when she nuzzles into the side of his arm, against the sleeve of his thermal shirt, that he smelled like pine sap, charred wood, patchouli, somebody else entirely.

*     *     *

 

And so here they are.

Her and Peter and Derek.

Just them. And while there may be three people in the room the silent communication going on is only between two.

She knows they’ve been talking about her because they pick up the conversation at the same point they were most likely at when she knocked at the door and forced the conversation to a halt.

“We need to do something” And there’s Derek stating the obvious.

“She doesn’t want to turn.” And Peter starting up a round of Devil’s Advocate.

“That was _not_ what I was suggesting.”

“Then what?”

“Work in shifts, keep the pack at bay, they’ll leave or we’ll kill them.”

“Oh, _very_ good.”

“What did he do?” Because Derek always does something that means conversations like this are necessary.

People smirks a little and drawls at her, “he insulted them.”

“Not all of them.” Derek’s hands are gripping the back of the couch, white knuckles and everything besides claws. His glare is directed at Peter but for a moment it settles on her.

“Oh, sorry. He insulted the _majority_ of the pack. Two out of three.”

“So how do you make nice?” She asks. Peter shrugs. “Gesture of good will. They like you, despite the incessant talking, go figure.”

And she gets why she’s there, they want her. It’s oddly flattering just like it’s absolutely fucking terrifying. “Oh. Permission for pack expansion, please? Yeah. Gotcha.”

“You should have let them die in the fucking woods,” his glare is softer but still enough to make her uncomfortable.

“We all know your opinion, Derek. Stiles.”

“What?”

“This may seem indelicate…”

Derek cuts him off with a ‘no,’ like a slap.

“Derek, _shut up_.”

She can’t help but smirk a little at Peter’s chiding. But there’s something they want to say, to ask, and it’s probably not a question or fact she’s really going to want to answer or hear.

“What?”

“You aren’t pack so you’re fair game,” Derek tells her.

“Got that vibe.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Packs don’t just include bonds between wolves, they can also be between bonds between humans and wolves in certain situations, families of wolves and non-wolves do exist for example.”

“Okay, yeah.”

“And mated unions,” he continues.

“Wolves don’t mate for life. Not really.” Because she’s an aggressive Wikipedia searcher and if she’s picked up, or stolen rather, a few textbooks on animal interaction and reproduction so what? Her information is solid.

“Yes, well guidelines more than rules situation.” Peter quotes something that sounds vaguely like something she may have said herself, once when situations weren’t so dire or occluded by unsaid issues.

Derek isn’t pleased with the back and forth and puts an end to it with the parting shot of all parting shots, “Does he really have to spell it out for you? Sex, Stiles. If they smell wolf on you they won’t see you as free game, fair game, whatever you want to call it.”

And he leaves having rocked her perception of dire situations.

“Not the way I would have put it.”

She sends a dirty look towards at the older man. She chews the inside of her cheek.

“Can’t you just kill them?”

“It’s unlikely we’d all survive that.”

“And you can’t protect me all the time.”

“Same answer to that, too.”

This is not the way she thought she’d be losing her virginity, dire circumstances and everything aside.

“It wouldn’t have to be Derek would it?”

“It could be me.”

“…”

“Derek it is then.”

“Why can’t it be…,” she doesn’t know where she’s going with this line of thought, her mind is unhelpfully blank and void of anything useful, “…anyone, _anyone_ else?”

“It could, they’re less likely to kill an another Alpha than a Beta. But if you and Isaac…”

“Isaac?”

“…or did you mean Scott?”

She slumps back in her chair and chews on her cuticles, “I didn’t really have anyone in mind.”

“Well, Isaac is the only one without a girlfriend.”

“I wouldn’t do that to him.”

“That’s noble. Sweet, even.”

“Shut up.”

“So, Me or Derek.”

“I…fuck. I just, I can’t make that decision in five minutes.”

“Is it ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”

“I don’t want the bite. I also don’t want to have sex with you.”

So it’s Derek. Fucking, _Derek_.

 _Fucking_ Derek.

She gets up and to the window, Derek is getting into his car. Fucking asshole. Leaving her with Peter. But it’s kind of soothing in a way, at least he trusts Peter enough to be left alone with her when she kind of needs to be getting boned by a werewolf. Or maybe the plan was for Peter to seduce her, she swallows, heavy and just about to vomit in her mouth at the idea.

“He doesn’t have to know.”

“Who doesn’t have to know what?”

“Derek doesn’t have to know you want to.”

“Fuck you.”

Peter doesn’t make a pun or witty quip and she leaves.

_Derek._

Fucking Derek. Literally.

*     *     *

 

She waits around until Derek comes back smelling like dirt and pine sap. His hair’s wet but there’s something under his nails that looks like dirt that’s red around his cuticles and a quick dip in some frigid lake in the middle of the night can’t get all the blood off.

“My dad goes in to work at six tomorrow. So come over at seven, or whenever.”

“I am not your… _lapdog_.”

“Nice word-choice.”

“You really think this is the time for wit and wordplay, wake the fuck up.”

“Would you want to be human?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Would you?”

“…”

“Doubt it. Same reason why I don’t want to be a werewolf. So this is what happens, I guess. And I don’t want to, but I don’t want any of the other choices more, and I really _really_ don’t want this…this to happen with _Peter_.” Her eyes are burning and she wipes them on her sleeve and feels impossibly small. “Okay?”

“…”

He’s looking uncomfortable, emotionally constipated unable to deal with the fact that she’s a girl and girls cry sometimes.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” he nods.

She sits in her driveway for a long time and cries when she can’t out-think the situation she’s in.

 

*     *     *

 

Peter comes over before Derek and belays her fears that he’s changed his mind and it is going to have to be Uncle Pete that has the pleasure of deflowering her.

He isn’t there for that though.

He explains knotting and other creepy werewolf stuff to her. She just listens, nods every once in awhile. Peter leaves and gives her a look she translates as pity. It irritates her fiercely.

 

*     *     *

 

She takes a shower and shaves her legs, contemplating what to do with more intimate parts of her anatomy, she’s well groomed and really, perpetually stubbled Derek Hale probably won’t be in the mood for pillow talk or in-depth genital observance so she doesn’t quite find the need in going further in her pre-virginity losing beauty regimen.

He’s sitting on the edge of her bed all brooding and leather jacket and late night fantasy cliché.

“Did Peter…”

Stiles nods swallowing hard when he looks at her, she clears her throat once, twice, “Yeah, how long does the…”

“Knot?”

“Yeah.”

“About a half-hour.”

“Okay.”

And he’s standing up to shrug out of his jacket, toe off his boots, take off his socks, pull off his shirt, and unbuckle his belt. He’s stepping out of his jeans and she’s trying not to cry because Derek Hale is in her bedroom in black boxer briefs, the shape of his dick trying really hard to get her attention and this is not how it’s _supposed_ to happen.

Still, she climbs under the sheets and doesn’t watch him walk over. It’s more than a bit intimidating when he asks her if she’s a virgin looming over her like he is. But she is and so she nods and he nods and then they just don’t do anything until she sits up and moves the blankets up and over so he can climb in.

She’s kissed boys before, but she’s never had one lie on top of her. His body heat is overwhelming and even when he’s not really pressed against her it feels like he is, like some fucking hot bodied ghost haunting her bedroom.

He closes his eyes and breathes and she slips a hand between them to pull up the hem of her logo-less pajama shirt, she’s forgone panties because they aren’t really necessary. He’s staring at her.

“Could you close your eyes or something?”

Her hand settles between her legs.

“What are you doing?”

She shuts her eyes because he won’t shut his and she wants to cry or die or just really make-over the moment into something special and hot and worthy of virginity loss.

“…”

“Stiles.”

“I know you don’t want to, okay? But, just…give me like a minute to get ready. Okay?”

She listens to him breath and it helps. It isn’t enough to make her concentrate on coming but it makes her groin chase her fingers.

“Derek,” and god her voice sounds hot, low, sex-raspy. She’d like to hear his voice like that.

“What?” Brusque, cracking like a whip.

She’s there, under him, fingers working desperately over her clit while his indifference and his eyes staring at the wall more often than her leave her feeling ashamed, humiliated and just as equally turned on in a way that she knows is so so _so_ fucked up.

And when he does look at her she can’t place the look, but it makes her feel like something under a microscope in biology being looked at by a kid that is bored to the point of pain. It isn’t quite revulsion but it’s in the same category as quiet discomfort.

She looks down at his crotch, there no reaction there either.

“…you can’t?”

“…”

“It’s okay.”

“…”

“Say something.”

“…”

She huffs, pulls at her last bit of clothing like maybe if he can actually look at something besides her face and focus on tits instead of the palpable anxious fear/shame/discomfort he might be able to get it up. It doesn’t, “shit,” she whispers. He makes a sounds in his throat, unamused, not happy. And his hands stop hers from taking off her shirt, “stop.”

“You don’t have to. If you can’t, that’s okay. I get it.”

“Stiles.”

Her breath puffs out hard and her stomach rises up against his with each inhale and every shivering exhale, “Can I touch you?”

“I…” He looks down at her hands, lets them go carefully, his shoulders tensed and breathing clipped.

“It’s okay,” she nods. One hand on the bulge of his bicep, “just…,” her other hand trailing slowly down the line of hair under his navel, knuckles bumping against the skin. She lets her fingertip pull back the elastic band of his briefs and slide down inside, the skin is hot underneath and she realizes that she is touching Derek Hale’s dick. And then she’s searching for more of it, holding it in her hand, there’s a surprising amount of weight to it, his hips pull back a little and move forward a heartbeat later.

He watches her lick at her other hand, because she knows her hands are just as calloused as his, cuticles rough and nails bitten down uneven and jagged.

His groan when her spit-slick hand smoothes over the now leaking bulbous head of his cock makes the pulse on the insides of her thighs beat harder, hotter. He’s getting hard, “is this…” she starts but he cuts her off, “stop.”

“Wha…-” and his hands fish hers out of his briefs, knocking them back to where they fall loosely on either side of her head.

“…”

She reaches out to touch him but he carefully takes her hand and puts it down on the bed before reaching down and extracting himself from his last bit of clothing.

He bows his head against her collar bone while he jerks off until his balls are heavy and aching, his groin a knot of heat and tight need.

The hot humidity of his breath wafting across her nipple keeps a whine lodged in her throat, and against better judgment her fingers stroke his hair, his hair running across the sensitive skin between each digit, it’s uncharacteristically soft.

His knees widen further on the bed and his fingers spread her open, and he’s nudging his way inside of her. Her insides stretch and she’s not nearly as wet as she needs to be for this. Something gives way, painfully and he’s settled inside. She can’t hold her breath anymore and when she lets it out it feels like decompression, startling and more painful than the initial intrusion, “Ah!”

Vaguely she knows he’s moving and she’s wincing and it feels like her cunt is fluttering, like some crippled bird trying to get away, futile. Every so often when her mind makes her aware of how hot his dick is inside of her, or how she can feel his pulse in it, her body just reacts, and for a second it feels good. She tries to chase the feeling, with her hips, pelvis, sex, but there’s the sharp, real presence of popped cherry sending feeling good running away.

Her eyes are closed.

She opens them.

When he notices he sucks in a breath, “Don’t…”

She holds her breath.

“Don’t look at me like that,” his voice is flat, far away, uninterested.

He turns his head into the space next to her shoulder, grunts, pushes inside again and she closes her eyes so she doesn’t have to stare at the ceiling.

When he’s swelling up inside of her it hurts, a lot. She deals with it. He pulls back a bit, every few minutes to see if he can get out, like he can’t stand to be there. It’s alright she can’t stand it either.

 

*     *     *

 

“I’m on the pill.”

“I know.”

After he leaves and she’s put on panties, she eyes the drawer she keeps her Adderall in.

Instead she gets up and takes half a milligram of the Xanax she knows her dad keeps in his sock drawer for the bad days; her mother’s birthday, her parent’s wedding anniversary, the day she died.

She sleeps for a long time and when she wakes up she’s angry to find her dad in the kitchen eating a grilled cheese. It’s two in the afternoon. He has no idea. None. Doesn’t know that there’s such a thing as werewolves or that Derek Hale has taken her virginity, or really, that she gave her virginity to Derek Hale.

That she did it because it’s hard enough lying to her dad about werewolves existing and if she had to be one she’d have to hide her own new existence instead and she doesn’t know if things are the worst they can be now or if, like people say, things can always get worse. That Murphy’s Law applies to the tenth degree of suckage and fucked up.

Under the pretense of putting dishes away she drops a glass on the kitchen floor.

 

*     *     *

 

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“Are you okay?”

“We’re not talking about it.”

“We can, if you need to.”

“Thanks. Just, normal okay. Everything is normal. Nothing’s changed.”

“Yeah. Good. Normal. Normal is good,” Scott smiles, assuring her and she doesn’t feel like crying, she doesn’t feel anything, not really.

 

*     *     *

 

She’d wanted to have a creation story, like Robin becoming Nightwing, or Batgirl becoming Oracle. Barbara Gordon had a police chief for a father too.

The parallels between her life and Batman comics is laughable.

Her life is a study in bad pop culture references she think while _the woods are lovely, dark and deep, and I’ve got miles to go before I sleep_ repeats on a loop in her head and she’s finding extreme parables between muscle car lover and serial killer Kurt Russell and every leather clad werewolf within the five miles of her current woodland position.

There’s her and them and fucking Hunters.

The Hale pack has been around, always has, in Beacon Hills. An alpha pack isn’t about to change that.  But things aren’t easy and they aren’t clean. It’s all messy. What’s meant to be a pack battle turns into Allison asking her father to help do some house cleaning extermination commando bullshit because she’s in love with Scott and Scott is just a boy.

Stiles thinks that’s what Allison thinks to try to keep herself from being torn apart because one day she’ll have to make the choice between highschool crushes and bloodline obligations.

There’s panic in the woods and Derek stepping up to _out alpha_ the top alpha of the three new alphas turns into flash bombs and arrows and wolfsbane bullets.

Boyd and her are slinking on the edges of the scene, Erica and Scott taking up the other flank, Derek’s got Peter and Isaac with him and shit goes down the way it always does, with her running through the woods, blood and brain running to fast on not enough fuel and the other pack has scattered in three direction.

Hunters come around on an ATV and Boyd is waiting up on a tree limb. They jack the quad, him steering like it’s the X-Games and her on the back, her spine against his so they’ve got sight lines of all directions.

Her father’s Kevlar gaps at the chest and sides but it’s better than nothing and she baseball bat will do her better than a crossbow.

There’s a howl of pain and one of victory and she knows it means wolf down.

Boyd gets up in a tree again and she’s crawling on her stomach through the underbrush. Hunter, werewolf, gloating, snarling. Same old scene. And it’s time for that recreation story. She’s rolling off into the tree line, crouching against the bark, she can’t see Boyd but he’ll hear her.

She doesn’t want to say _‘stay’_ but there’s no way around it, so she does.

Allison gave her a taser for her birthday, she puts it to use. 

She’s on the back of some camo clad man with a locked in chokehold she’s seen on UFC while he’s stunned and flailing, he’s out cold in about a minute, maybe two.

The alpha who’s got a couple years on Derek and green eyes tries to stand up. Boyd gets him on his feet with a hissed warning about snapping his neck if he decides to go down the ‘no good deed goes unpunished’ route.

They  get him to Deaton.

The ATV ride from hell is comprised of some alpha dude who’s about ten years older than her pressed spine to spine with Boyd but the inside of his thighs against the back of her hips and a hand around the leather of her belt right below the small of her back for some semblance of a hand hold.

Later, while the town vet picks bullet shrapnel out of his right pectoral muscle, he’ll say it was because he didn’t want her to fall off and ask if he accidentally scratched her.

Later he’ll look at her and for the first time all night she’s aware that she’s scared while being scared.

Later Boyd will walk her home and sit outside in her backyard because he knows that maybe she has a reason to be scared.

And later still Derek and Peter will be the ones to tell her that yeah, no good deed goes unpunished and that’s how things get so completely fucked.


End file.
